Toxicity
by James Is A Dalek
Summary: When Wilson's first wife is admitted yet still seemingly undiagnosable and there's an outbreak of the Nits, how far can House stretch? [HousexWilson slash in later chapers]
1. Preface

_First fic for House M.D. with chapers. (: _  
**  
Toxicity**

"House!"

Stopping dead in his tracks, House sighed as he heard his name yelled from the stairs. Wilson, of course. That jerk just didn't want somebody else to get home and watch the game if he couldn't himself. Raising his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, House limped around, and, sure enough, Wilson was struggling through the throngs to get to him.

Reaching House, Wilson clutched his side, having apparently decided waiting for the elevators was too trivial for him and bounding down three floors at top steed.

"You buh-bastard, House." He panted, trying to catch his breath. "I've been cuh-calling since your office."

"Yuh," House nodded, rubbing the stubble over his his jaw briefly, in that thoughtful sort of way. "And I've been tactfully ignoring you since my office."

Grimacing, Wilson closed his eyes until he could stand straight without the stitch making another attack on his side. Being 'in top shape' wasn't really the same as sprinting through a hospital, dodging patients and staff while yelling your ass of a coworker's name.

Deep brown eyes finally opening once more, Wilson shoved the paper file in his right hand at House's chest, looking somewhat drawn. As House complained, however, the chords beneath his shirt collar in his neck tightened, and he looked like he was having trouble just not shoving a fist into Greg's stomach.

"I'm going home! What, you want me to say it slower? Want it in Spanish? I go home to get away from patients, not to be reading about some little girl with an eraser up her nose as my bedtime story."

"I don't want you to take it home." Wilson muttered, looking sideways at the floor instead of directly at House. "I want you to take the case. And do something about it. Now."

House's jaw dropped, and he made a few attempts at words in his dumbstruck state. If he hadn't already, he now looked completely incredulous.

"Wha-- Go away." Deciding he couldn't risk any more time arguing with Wilson without risking missing the beginning of The O.C, House shoved the case file back at the other before turning around and making for the main doors.

It didn't look like Wilson was giving up without a fight, however, and darted around to block him. House sighed and rubbed his brow.

"This is _incredibly_ juvenile." House spoke with an unusual quietness before shifting his weight more onto his good leg and striking Wilson's with his cane. It had the desired effect, and the Oncologist stumbled from his path in favor of clutching his shin.

Smiling, House pushed open the main door, the cool breeze hitting him.

"It's my wife!" Was the strangled cry from behind him, and – strangely – the voice seemed close to cracking. Twisting his head back, he could see Wilson was still holding his shin, but had that look of desperation on his face that made him look so much like a puppy. House sighed, and, even if he didn't show it, felt something inside him mellow.

"Which incarnation?" He asked sharply, pointedly checking his watch.

"The first one. Blythe. Please." With his free hand, Wilson held out the case papers while testing his foot back on the floor. Both prayers were answered as there was no shooting pain and House took a half-step back towards him.

"They don't know what's wrong." He said as he handed over the papers. "But they know she's dying."

Shoulders dropping a little, House briefly scoured the papers before looking back up at a thoroughly relieved Wilson. In fact, he looked so relieved that House was tempted to throw the Kleenex box at him.

"Alright." House mumbled, grudgingly. "But you'd better tape The O.C. For me, or you are so dead."


	2. Differential Diagnosis

Randomly dedicated to Rolling Thunder 420 for her reviews. They make me feel warm and fuzzy. (:

* * *

**Toxicity**

Scrawling over the white board, the squeak of House's marker was the only sound above breathing in the office. Cameron, Chase and Foreman were all seated to the back of the room, absentmindedly staring holes through the desk before them or checking watches every five seconds, just to see if the second had forgotten to tick by. Alas, every second fell past. Another one they would never relive.

Apart from his Ducklings, there were two abnormalities in the office. The first was Lisa Cuddy. She was leaning against the edge of the desk, looking down at herself now and again to check if her shirt was a little too open for the matter at hand. Cuddy was incredibly behind on schedule, and would probably fall asleep at her desk as a result, but felt an almost motherly instinct to keep an eye on the group until the brief was over. By 'group', she was mainly concentrating on Dr. House and the second abnormality: Wilson.

Wilson didn't look like he would be catching sleep anywhere, let alone his office. It wasn't even 24 hours since his ex-wife was admitted into the hospital and already he looked like he'd gone a week on the town. He didn't look good, and Cuddy was mainly hovering around to snap at the slightest chance to send him home. He needed some rest, yet, at the same time, she simply couldn't bear to dismiss him from such a case.

"Okay," House said at last, scratching his neck with the base of the pen. "Here we have a thirty-nine year old female. Osteoporosis, loss of hair, lack of muscle control and acute vomiting. The nurses have a bet on when she's going to cough up her small intestine."

Cuddy saw Wilson wince at the crude comment before sinking lower into his chair. She sighed, which gained no more than a quirked eyebrow from House. She could tell already... this wasn't going to end happily.

"In the three seconds she stopped showing us what she had for dinner last night, she said she said her vision was blurred and a headache."

House began to tap the pen against his teeth, now pointedly ignoring both the abnormalities in his office. He hadn't asked either of them to be there, and if they didn't like the suffering House would hold the door open for them.

Well... no. He wouldn't. Put the point still stood.

"Differential diagnosis. Hit me." He gestured to his Ducklings, all of whom seemed incredibly sombre. The news that this was Wilson's first wife had leaked from a set of loose lips and now not one of the three were making eye contact with the Oncologist. It didn't seem to matter at all to Wilson, however – he was staring at his shoes.

"Menopause would explain the Osteoporosis, as well as the hair. Stress." Foreman offered, shifting uneasily in his chair. Usually he would be in his element as this case looked easier than the last batch they had dealt with, but the presence of the Dean and the ex-husband was making him want to hide in the cafeteria for a week or two.

"Is she vomiting up her excess hormones?" House shot back quickly, giving Foreman his 'I'm not impressed. You're a jerk' look.

"Okay, come on, what else." House looked to Cameron and Chase, both of whom had found a fixating new interest in the floor. A sharp bang against the floor from House's cane jerked them both back to reality, and the owner of said cane rolled his eyes.

"Drugs?" Chase offered, looking both hopeful and nervous about his words. "To help the hormone levels of the menopause."

"Her body didn't take to it, trying to throw it back up." Cameron chipped in, "Literally."

"Yeah, could explain the lack of muscle control. The drug could be--"

"No, no, _no_!" House sucked his teeth, exasperation showing through in his voice. "She's too young. We can check the hormone levels, make sure, but they'll just prove you wrong. This isn't the menopause. Not unless it changed from when I last observed."

"Last time you 'observed'," It was Wilson who piped up, his voice weak. He didn't look like he'd be up for much of a fight, yet still found strength enough to make a dig. "Spandex was still in style."

Cocking his head, House put a hand behind his ear, as if trying to hear better.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was that a jibe? Gee, well, just distracting me from my _job_, Jimmy-boy. Don't worry. We can put this off until she starts vomiting blood, move onto someth--"

"House." Cuddy interjected, tones giving him a warning. "Shut up."

"Aww, he started it." House was still bickering, now speaking in an imitation of a child. Cuddy refused to reply, crossing her arms instead, and he slowly turned back to the job at hand.

"What about Toxicity?" Foreman spoke suddenly, breaking the ice that had soon formed between the coworkers. "Toxicity of the Liver brought about by... Acute Hep-C."

"Cirrhosis..." Wilson muttered, shaking his head. House, as usual, ignored it and concentrated on what Foreman was saying. It would make sense – the headache and vomiting could be part of the flu-like symptoms that accompanied Hep-C. The hair loss, though, and blurred vision? Could that really be stress, and what about the Osteoporosis? If she really was going through the menopause, meaning he was wrong instead of his Ducklings, that could explain away both other symptoms.

"Okay, Acute Hep-C. We want a check on the menopause situation, first. If it's positive, give her the old cocktail of interferon alpha and ribavirin and we're away!"

Shoving the pen back into its rightful place, House hobbled to the door that adjoined the two rooms, exiting quickly.

"Well, I'm glad that's sorted." Wilson's words were bitter as he stood and made for the door. Before the door had even swung close again, Cuddy was following in his footsteps.

"I'll schedule the hormone testing." Cameron muttered, checking her watch again. "Foreman, you and Chase organize the cocktail."

Chase frowned, sitting a little straighter.

"But we... we'll have to wait for the test results."

"No. It'll be positive. Give her the damned drugs as soon as you can, just to stop Wilson moping around here. I can do the test after and lie my ass off about it."

With that sentence lingering in the air, the Immunologist struggled up from her seat and pulled open the office door, quite relieved when she was swept away by the torrents of people all rushing by.

"Jeez," Chase raised a hand to the back of his neck as he spoke to Foreman, trying to rub the ache away. "She's even starting to act like House."


	3. PositivexNegative

"_But I'm just wondering when the slash will come along... ;)"_

Well, in the words of Basil Fawlty: I'm doing it now, tell her I'm doing it now!  
I've decided I like where this fic is heading and dragged it out a little. So slash is set for chapter four, I think. (:

* * *

**Toxicity**

House's thumbs jabbed at the Gameboy, eyes fixed on the screen as the mother of Little Miss Exam Room One continued to witter on, trying to provide House with a lowdown on every aspect of her daughter's life. Watching a little plumber with an odd mustache jump strange Venus Flytraps in tubes was far more interesting than listening to what time this girl brushed her hair; to be honest, having his eyes surgically dissected would be less painful than just the sound of this woman's voice.

"Okay, so..." He didn't raise his eyes from the Gameboy. "Going back to my original question of fifteen minutes ago, what are her symptoms again?"

"Well, she's constantly scratching her head. I thought itchy scalp and bought some of that special shampoo, but it didn't work. Maybe a rash? Or is it serious?"

Hitting pause, House threw the device onto the worktop before heaving himself up from the chair and shuffling over to his patients. As described, the ten-year-old was scratching just above her ear as he surveyed the both of them wearily.

"Oh, yes Mrs. Jackson. Very serious." Reaching into a nearby drawer, House produced a pair of tweezers and positioned them above the area the girl's nails had previously been clawing at. A few 'ow's and complaints later, House was reaching once more for the Gameboy and Mrs. Jackson was peering at the set of tweezers in her hands. "You've just completely wasted fifteen minutes of my life."

As he expected, a slight squeal reached his ears mere moments after he had settled back into the game.

"A bug?" She hissed, holding the metal tool as though they were aflame. "A bug!"

"Yuh," House replied, evidently not bothered in the slightest. "A bug. Like about most of your child's school right now, she has a load of these icky little white things crawling over her head. They lay eggs, jump to another host, whatever..."

The tone of his pager soon overrid his will to continue speaking, and House tugged the offending object away from his waistband to check the display. What he saw didn't make him a particularly happy bunny, and he had soon grabbed his cane and wrenched the door open.

The mother's cries for him to get back to the exam room fell upon deaf ears.

-+-

"She's seizing!" Foreman yelled, attempting to roll the jerking woman onto her side as his fingers scrambled over her neck, trying to feel for a pulse. It was there – faint, but there. Her throat was rapidly closing, however, and nobody had arrived to help him out. What was the use of a pager if nobody was going to respond?

Still struggling to get her onto her side, Foreman felt the jerks weaken, and grunted something incoherent. Letting her go, she rolled to her back once more, and soon the jerks of the seizure had vanished completely. Manipulating her jaw, he shined a penlight into her mouth, and saw the throat was indeed still closing.

The machines and monitors around him beeped rapidly as if they too were having attacks and fits as he ripped open the Bag Valve Mask, the tubing quickly uncoiling.

"What's going on?"

The voice made Foreman jump a little, quickly turning to the door to see who had intruded. It was possibly the worst person for the situation: Wilson. Behind him, House was limping closer with Chase bringing up the rear. Good things come in threes?

Before long, Chase had bustled into the room and was talking rapidly while helping with the invasive ventilation. It wasn't going smoothly, and House was repeatedly dragging Wilson back from the room as he too tried to help.

"Just perform a tracheotomy!" The Oncologist had to raise his voice to even have a hope of being heard amidst everything. Nobody was paying the slightest attention to his suggestions, anyway.

"I can get this." Foreman grunted, grimacing as he tried to set up the artificial airway. It didn't want to work, and he was visibly struggling. Throwing up his hands, Chase practically elbowed the man out of the way to do it himself. The Australian got lucky – the new airway finally passed into the Trachea and Foreman began pressing on the bag.

The frantic beeping held up for a moment longer, then began to dip back into regular patterns. Almost everybody in the room sighed a deep breath of relief, shoulders dropping as their tension dissolved.

Everybody but House.

"The hormone test was positive?" He asked quietly, staring into the air beside the patient as his thoughts rushed. "It was positive, indicating a menopause?"

Chase and Foreman looked at each other. Neither spoke. They didn't have to.

Before any lie was even thought up, House was out of the room and down to the elevators, Wilson hot on his heels. He knew who would be found in the labs.

-+-

"You idiot!"

As the door to the lab crashed open, House started his insults immediately, knowing full well Cameron would be seated beyond them. Sure enough, as he entered he saw her drop two of the three splints in her hand as she jumped. Even though her eyes were directed down at the work surface, it was easy enough to tell she had been crying.

"You went against what I told you!" Limping into the room, Wilson was revealed to be standing behind House, dead in his tracks. It looked as though he silence had been induced by the shock.

"I had to." Cameron whispered feebly, hunching further over the equipment.

"No! You had to do what I said! Why did you put a woman's life at _risk_ – to get back at me for something?"

"Oh, right, because the entire world revolves around you!" Swinging around abruptly to face him, she got to her feet, keeping the eye contact. "I did what I've learnt from watching you – I took a chance."

"You could have killed her!"

"I wanted to get this over quicker! I wanted to help!"

"Help?" Wilson suddenly tuned into the conversation, bristling as he repeated the word. "Trying to kill somebody I love. That's _helping_?"

"Keep out of it." House cut him off before he could say anymore. "Your judgment's clouded already. But _you_!" He focused his attentions back on Cameron, who had since folded her arms protectively. She was staring down at the floor by her feet.

"I'm sorry." Cameron muttered. "I thought if we administered the drugs quicker... I was sure it'd be positive. I..."

"Was wrong." House finished for her, shaking his head. "You realize Cuddy's gonna be on this before you can count to ten. Full investigation into the conduct of my team? Well, that's _exactly _what we need right now."

Cameron said no more. The matter was closed.

-+-

As they reached the elevators once more, Wilson leant heavily against the wall beside the sliding doors. A pained frown creased his brow as they waited. It was something House noticed soon enough, and he delved into the pocket of his jacket for his Vicodin.

"Here." He offered the bottle of Vicodin after downing one himself. Wilson took a pill, but just rolled it in the palm of his hand.

"It's not going to seep through your skin." House pointed out, jabbing the button for the elevator again, just in case the wires had forgotten. "Take it. Calm down."

"Are you always such a demanding bastard, or am I just noticing it more today?" Wilson shot back, but he swallowed the pill all the same. Being on edge was rapidly exhausting him, and he could already feel the firm pull of fatigue. He wanted to get home and sleep for two days straight, but knew that would never happen. As soon as he set foot through the door, nostalgia would hit him as hard as ever.

"You busy tonight?" Wilson asked, watching House hit the call button three more times. All patience seemed to have gone through the window in the last few hours.

"No. Wanna come over? The L Word's on." Giving up on the button, House turned his back on the doors and watched the crowds swanning past.

"One day, I'll figure out your obsession with lesbians." He grinned weakly as he spoke, watching the doors finally slide open.

As they stepped into the empty elevator, House chuckled some.

"Don't bet on it."


	4. Revelations

**Toxicity**

The synthesized tunes of Depeche Mode filled the room, sparking from the record player that sat a few feet away from the two males. Wilson had been pleasantly surprised to find that House and he shared at least one interest in the field of music – Synthpop. There were the record sleeves of Depeche Mode, Ultravox and Tears for Fears scattered around the floor amidst empty bottles and stray packets of peanuts.

With his back pressed against the leather couch, one foot against the floor so he could use his knee as an armrest, House looked oddly placid. He was making no complaints as Wilson, who sat between House's legs, leant against his chest with eyes half-closed. Although his quietness could be attributed to the glass of scotch just beside his leg.

Their evening had comprised mostly of alcohol-based activities. House had broken out the Stella Artois while they were watching The L Word and eating Pizza. It had really only to take Wilson's mind off Blythe as he himself still felt knotted about Cameron and the mistake. But, gradually, as they progressed from the beer to a bottle of Jack Daniels, he found himself not caring as much. Alcohol was good at making you forget, replacing your worries with its intoxicating presence.

"Is there anymore, uh..." Wilson spoke suddenly, sitting up a little straighter against House's chest. "Um... peanuts?"

Reaching above him, House felt about the seats of the couch until he came across an almost-full foil packet. Emptying a good third of it into his mouth, he shoved the remains into Wilson's hand. With his head now fully resting back against the seats of the couch, House chewed thoughtfully as _Just Can't Get Enough_ resonated around the room. Somewhere, towards the back of his mind, he could remember this track on the radio. God, it would have had to be the mid-80s then... had he actually survived that decade?

"Do you remember the 80s?" He asked Wilson, who seemed to be muttering along to the song. How old was Wilson again? Younger than him, but old enough to remember Band Aid, Aerosmith, fall of the Berlin Wall, surely.

"Rubix cube." Wilson replied, hooking an arm through the shape made between House's knee and the arm resting on it to grab the glass of Scotch. "Pac-man. Miami Vice. Could I ever forget?"

Smirking at the mention of the fads, House drew his head back from the couch to nod slightly, chin brushing Wilson's hair as he did so.

"Please don't tell me you had blond highlights." He replied, plucking the glass from James' hands to swallow the remains in one gulp.

"I had acid-wash jeans. Designer stubble. Back then, I was cool."

Snorting, Greg dipped his head to Wilson's shoulder, trying to stifle both his laughter and the mental image of James that had entered his head.

"Oh, sure. I bet you had a Swatch Watch and Leg Warmers too."

Wilson's smirk dropped by a couple of molars as he processed what had been said, and House could feel his body stiffen. He'd gone one fad too many, and suddenly the fun was over.

"Blythe did." Wilson muttered, eventually, the bottle of Scotch clinking against the glass in his unsteady hand as he poured himself another drink. By the time he drew the glass away from his mouth again, it was half-gone already. "She did."

House shifted uncomfortably, wanting to get back to SynthPop and Rubix Cubes. He didn't need a talk on relationships with Wilson, not tonight, but it looked like things were sharply heading in that direction. Sighing, he humored the inebriated Oncologist.

"When did you meet her?"

As he spoke each word, the tension in Wilson's shoulders slowly dripped away, and he settled comfortably back against House, using him as some sort of cushion. The cushion didn't seem to mind at all.

"Teenage sweetheart. You know how it is." Swallowing the rest of the peanuts, Wilson reached over to grab at an untidy pile of records. Shuffling them over the floor, he plucked a Bowie/Jagger record from the set, looking slightly scornful.

"I know." House replied, taking the record from Wilson's fingers and hiding it under a batch of others. Guilty purchase, regretted ever since.

Dragging the record player closer to them, Wilson changed discs, settling for Jeff Buckley's cover of _Hallelujah_.

"I just... I always thought she was the one." James continued, staring at the back of the record sleeve. The words swam in front of his gaze, just irritating the headache he'd managed to ignore for the last three hours. Throwing the sleeve halfway across the room, much to House's disapproval, he sighed.

"Turns out I'm wrong more often than you." He received a sharp dig to his side with House's elbow for that dig, and grinned again. "I met somebody else."

"Wife the second." House interjected, wishing Wilson had chosen something a little more upbeat that a song about broken hallelujahs. Iggy Pop would have been preferred over all this heart-touching stuff. A guys' night in consisted of alcohol and crude humor. Not... confessions and this malarkey.

"No. No, this... this wasn't a wife." Wilson rubbed his collarbone, which was exposed by his loose tie and partly-unbuttoned shirt.

"So... you just married two other women for the Hell of it?"

"No. I loved my wives."

"As you keep saying."

Wilson dropped into silence for a moment, taking on board House's sharp comments. He did say it an awful lot – why was he still trying to justify his love to House anyway? Because House was a skeptic. If he could convince such a skeptic, perhaps he could finally believe in it himself.

"This person isn't interested. Just friends."

House scoffed at that, raising an eyebrow as Wilson tilted his head up, resting it against his shoulder to view Greg from an upside-down view. "Just Friends" wasn't something that was in Wilson's dictionary; the man would flirt with a floormop if there was nothing else available.

"I'm serious! He'd make me an eunuch if I tried anything."

"He?" House quickly picked up on the gender used. He'd heard of Wilson's mystery crush before. Actually, he'd heard of near enough all of them. But with this one, James had seemed devoted to letting a gender slip. Always 'they' used.

Wincing a little, Wilson rolled his head back from House's shoulder and into his own chest.

"He." He confirmed, wishing he'd kept his tongue bitten. No doubt House would be making posters about his sexuality before the evening was over.

"Oh." It Was House's only reply, and an awkward silence followed. Wilson's gaze bore a hole into House's piano chair, while House himself stared up at the ceiling, eyes revealing just how deep in thought he had become within the last three seconds. He was only disturbed by Wilson's sudden movements to struggle to his feet.

"I should go." Wilson mumbled, to which House vaguely nodded.

Scrambling to his knees, James crawled in a circle, choosing that as the best position to try and stand as he would have something soft to fall upon. He didn't feel too great, and it would be just like his body to give up at that point. God only knew how he was going to get home, but he couldn't sit here and bite his nails and force conversation for much longer.

Sure enough, as he rose on his knees, the world gave an almighty tilt and he flailed for the couch, gripping the seats hard beneath his fingers, wishing the nausea would go away just long enough for him to get out of House's apartment.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Wilson breathed deeply for a moment before allowing them to flicker open. The world was no longer spinning, but his breath still hitched in his throat. About his hips he could feel the weight of House's hands, too light to be helping him up yet firm enough to say they weren't there via an accident. Lowering his head, he could see House's piercing blue eyes were trained on him, looking at him as if staring him out.

"Me?" Was the gruff question from House's lips, and Wilson swallowed as it was spoke. He didn't need this – Blythe was still in hospital. He had enough stress to keep him going for a year without admitting... he had hid it so well for so long already. He could carry on for a little longer.

Except House already knew. Wilson could see it, deep in his eyes he could see that House had fathomed everything in a matter of seconds.

"You." He whispered, his head dropping, notch by notch, until he was forehead-to-forehead with House. That was it – he'd just spat on the deepest friendship he had. This would be the last time House would even look at him, speak to him. Greg could always find excuses to worm out of anything – why should contact with his fagot friend be any differen--

Against his slightly parted lips, Wilson could feel a slight, gentle pressure, rough stubble scratching against his cheek as House trapped him in a brief, brush of a kiss. The weights on his hips had since moved as the hands slipped under the hems of his untucked shirt, forcing a shiver to crawl down his spine as they touched the bare skin of his back.

Pulling away from House's lips, Wilson's jaw moved in unspoken words as he tried to find a grasp on reality. This felt like nothing more than a vivid dream, a fantasy; in real life, House couldn't kiss him. House couldn't touch him. House couldn't make him feel like this.

"We were never 'just friends'." House muttered into his ear, brushing the lobe with his mouth as he spoke. A tingling sensation rocketed through Wilson's body as he felt that, and he had to struggle to stop himself merely slumping down into House's chest again.

Pulling Wilson closer to him, House found himself exploring the proud, firm rise of his coworker's shoulders beneath the shirt. He could feel the shoulder blades press out against the skin as the back arched in response to a secondary kiss, this one pressing deeper into the other's mouth.

Sinking low on his knees, James could do nothing more but submit to these actions, paralyzed by shock. And fear. The longer it went on, the more he realized how it scared him. The more he could taste the Scotch on House's breath, the more he realized how wrong this could be. But the more he was touched, explored, the more he realized just how much he wanted it.

Crawling closer to House, fingers flitting across his unshaven jaw, the fervid, rough kiss that had developed was punctuated by a low groan from Greg. Opening his eyes, Wilson was just in time to see the look of gratification slip away from House's features, a somewhat sly expression replacing it. Looking down the column formed by their two bodies, he guided both their gazes down to the knee pressing hard into his groin.

Against his knee, Wilson could feel House harden considerably and a noise of desperation fell from his own lips. Setting the knee against the outside of House's leg, James found himself almost straddling the other, breathing becoming faster, more shallow as he ground his lower body against Greg's.

With his hands running down the front of House's shirt, tugging open every button, Wilson let his lips glide down to the base of the man's neck, tongue just playing over the sensitive arc of muscle there. It seemed to be appreciated, and House tensed for a moment before pulling his hands away from Wilson's back, setting them to task with unbuttoning the other's shirt.

It seemed to take forever, with each square inch of revealed skin just serving to excite him further, but House finally managed to pull away Wilson's shirt as his own was slipped to the crook of his elbows. Enjoying the sensation of the smooth chest against him, House trailed his fingers down over James' stomach, feeling the muscles there clench and unclench to his light touch. Reaching the buckle of the belt, nimble fingers pulled it through the loops quickly as he felt Wilson unfasten his pants.

Shrugging off his shirt, Greg shuffled backwards into the cool leather, heart crashing ever faster as Wilson brushed the kisses over his abdomen while pulling away his slacks. He felt light-headed, almost dizzy, but attributed that to the sudden movements after consuming so much alcohol. Thankfully, he seemed to be in enough of a right mind to remember when he and Wilson had been practicing spitballs months back. House had kicked the small tin of Vaseline under the couch, he was sure.

Reaching back, he searched blindly behind him until his fingers clasped over a small, cold metal object. Bringing it into the open, he caught Wilson's eye, caught the hunger there. Their clothes were practically non-existent – the last of House's garments were collected down by his ankles, which were soon removed with a quick jerk, and Wilson's boxers were riding low on his hips.

Peeling those boxers away, prising him free, he saw James shudder. Pressing the tin of Vaseline into his chest, the shudder was only greatened as his hot skin came into contact with the cool metal, and House found himself watching every movement. However slight, he was fixed on them. Lapping them all up.

Unscrewing the tin, Wilson took an era pressing his fingers into the lubricant, knowing perfectly well how he was tormenting the man beneath him. In plain view of House, Wilson folded his hand over, fingers trailing the substance clear over his palm before lowering his hand to Greg's erection.

As his hand closed loosely over the hardon, he could feel the throb against his fingers, causing his breath to be drawn sharp. Smearing the Vaseline over House's cock, Wilson forced himself to move slow, indulging in the look of torture over the man's face.

Shifting his weight onto his knees, James crawled further up House's body, pausing for the briefest of moments to examine what those eyes told him. His hands traveled up to the back of his hair, and, as he eased himself over House's erection, their grip became tighter. Discomfort, perhaps even pain was visible, but he pressed himself into the other's neck to try and mask the expression. It was easy to feel Greg gliding deeper within him, the throb ever evident, and didn't stop until the human anatomy made it impossible for any deeper penetration.

Holding tight onto House, he hadn't realized House was holding tight to him. The hands were against his back once more, holding him close. Wilson also hadn't realized he had spoken, made any sound at all, but the slightly raw feeling at the back of his throat told him otherwise.

Slowly, gradually, he let his hands slip down to the other's shoulders, beginning to use them to manipulate his movement. Leaning forwards, into House, he pressed into those shoulders, shifting upwards slightly, before settling back down. It evoked a thrill-laced moan from the receiver, and Wilson repeated the action, slightly harder, rougher. Feeling the member ride over his prostate, Wilson wasn't able to choke back a short cry of his own, muting it into the erect cords in House's neck.

Seconds, minutes, perhaps even hours slipped by without either noticing. Their sweat-slickened bodies ground, driving each closer and closer to the edge, the moans of ecstasy in no short supply. House's body ached, Wilson's hips bruised. Just breathing became an effort, kisses shortened to force air down to lungs.

The tension had been gripping House's abdomen for so very long, mounting bit by bit until it became unbearable. His back was arched, needy for just one more grind. One more. One more. One m--

The noise ripped from his mouth, a final moan as he came, body jerking up hard against Wilson. His teeth were grit, eyes closed tight, alternating between chokes and pants. Above him, he could feel Wilson's fingers dig so deep into his shoulders as the motions of House's climax drove him over the edge, head raised to the Heavens.

And then? Silence. A deafening silence that bore down on everything, a silence that refused to be shattered or splintered. No words, no noises. Just breathing – rapid and hungry breathing – was the only sound scathing Wilson's ears as he pulled himself from House, too drained to move much further.

Flat against the floor, Wilson closed his eyes against the world as sleep wormed through his system, enticing him to follow. He did – his last memory before the blackness of House's slightly shaking fingers brushing his hair.


	5. Confrontation

**Toxicity  
**

"It's not Cirrhosis."

Staring into his coffeecup, House was once more addressing his Ducklings on the subject of Wilson's wife. The hormone tests were negative, meaning it wasn't the menopause. Meaning they were both screwed and back to square one. Nobody was offering any further suggestions, not even a slight comment to the next diagnosis. Each of those they had put out into the open were now viciously scrawled over on the white board.

"There's something... something we're missing." House was still musing into his drink rather than actually swallowing it. The coffee was no longer hot by now, anyway – they had been discussing this matter for the past hour, and his cup had become something to merely occupy his hands while speaking. Sighing, he made a slight whirlpool in the milky brown liquid.

"New symptoms. Abnormal bone growths over the radius – X-Ray confirms as much. Skin peeling, especially over the shoulders. Foreman says she was complaining of dry eyes, probably stemming from Diabetes."

Chase continued chewing the top of his pencil, mind ticking over. He didn't want to speak, give House another idea to shred. The man didn't seem to be in a particularly good mood, and he'd already been called a 'poncy British jackass' three times that morning. Perhaps it was the lack of Dr. Cameron that was getting House so irate – he had merely brushed off their questions about her with some story about some appointment with Cuddy.

"We need to get that out of the equation. It's not... fitting."

Absentmindedly scratching a constant itch to the back of his hair, House shuffled to face the white board directly, standing mere inches from the writing. There was something they were all blatantly missing, yet he couldn't fathom what – all the clues refused to add up into one, neat answer.

His train of thought was sharply derailed as the door opened. House didn't need to turn around to see who had entered, as he knew full well who it was. There wasn't the stab-stabbing of Cuddy's heels, or Cameron's voice forcing out an explanation for her lateness. Just muffled footsteps, padding around the desk without a word. Wilson.

"Welcome to the house of fun, grab a seat." House muttered, a slight smile forming on his lips as he stared at the markings on the board. It was a pretty low remark, a jab below the belt, but House found the temptation too much. As he expected, Wilson pointedly ignored the remark, yet remained standing.

"This isn't working. Chase – give her a shot of Retinyl Palmitate for the eyes. Get that out of the way." House pinched the bridge of his nose, vexed at the fact that they still had no differential diagnosis to fit the symptoms. There was something, obviously something, but they kept skimming right over it. "Foreman, go... yeah."

Taking a large gulp of the lukewarm coffee, House continued standing in front of his notes, hearing them shuffle about and scuff chairs before leaving the room. They both looked incredibly tired, energy drawn out of them by just sitting in a room with House.

For about half a minute, neither House nor Wilson spoke. The former continued looking, words now merging in and out of each other, the latter examining the palms of his hands. There wasn't even any movement until House shuffled over to the sink, tipping away the rest of his drink and shoving the mug onto the draining board.

"Listen..." Wilson finally splintered the silence, "Just say what you need to say. Get it out of your system, because I'm not going to put up with you passing snide comments."

"I have nothing to say, unless you want an essay on the boredom and suckyness that occupies my everyday life." House twisted the tap on to full blast, the crashing of the water giving him something to concentrate on. Something to block out Wilson.

"You ran out of your own apartment." Wilson padded closer, hands stuffed into his pockets. "That's low. Out of somebody else's apartment? Not so bad. But your own?"

"I can't get to work unless I actually step out of the door." Thrusting the mug under the gushing cold torrent, beads of water flying everywhere from the obstruction, House fixed his gaze firmly on the tap. He had no reason to be having this conversation with Wilson.

"But you didn't wake me." He persisted, by now standing next to House. He could feel the water droplets hitting him and ruffled his hair, shaking them away.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must have missed the memo about me becoming your carer." House ground his back teeth, now rinsing a clean mug.

"House." Wilson gripped the edge of the sink, both flustered and frustrated. He had woken up to an empty apartment, no sign of Greg. He had still been in the same position, although the space around him had been considerably more tidy than the peanut-and-scotch atmosphere of the night prior. House had evidently preferred actual cleaning than just kicking him into a state of wakefulness.

"House, just drop the uncaring bastard act."

Without warning, House let the mug drop from his hands, a loud clunk sounding as it hit the bottom of the sink. Twisting the tap off, he turned to face Wilson, expression one of incredible sarcasm.

"If you're expecting a hug, I recommend Cuddy."

"An explanation would be better."

"For what?" Pulling out the infamous Vicodin bottle, House shook two pills into the palm of his hands, swallowing them down quickly. He had gone the morning on only one dose, but suddenly his thigh was shooting sparks.

"You just run off. For that." Wilson found himself watching the bottle without even realizing it. It unnerved him, worried him for some reason.

"My hooker was off sick. I wanted to get laid. End of explanation." Wiping his hand on his pants, House hobbled past Wilson, but was stopped by a firm grasp on his forearm. Trying to shake himself free, he only succeeded in almost overbalancing, and scowled.

"Don't say that." Wilson's voice had dropped considerably, leaning closer to House as he gripped the man's arm.

Wrenching his forearm away, House continued to the clear door of the office, muttering a single phrase as he pulled it open.

"I just did."


	6. Pep Talk

**Toxicity**

"Stop scratching."

Looking up quickly, Wilson pulled his hand away from the back of his head, not realizing he was even guilty of the spoken crime. A forced, apologetic smile twitching on his lips in Cuddy's general direction, Wilson forced his hand down to rest upon his thigh, awaiting the rest of his lecture.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy asked, steepling her fingers with her elbows resting against the desk. She wasn't enjoying this – Wilson was a good man, a good doctor, yet his behavior, at least that according to Dr. House, troubled her greatly. She didn't want him turning into a liability.

"Head lice. Every school in New Jersey's got them. Damn gift from House. I--"

Cuddy shook her head, silencing him quickly. Pressing the two index fingers of her hands against her lips, she fixed him with an oddly soft, sympathetic gaze. Wilson found himself feeling guilty for eliciting such an expression and looked away.

"No. What's wrong with you. As a whole."

Oh, God – he was getting shrink wrapped. She was trying to probe his mind in that caring 'I feel your pain' sort of way. It was the sort of behavior that made Wilson want to cringe, but he managed to contain himself. Somehow.

"Nothing, I'm fine. It—it's just stress."

Cuddy nodded. Wilson bit the inside of his lower lip a little, hoping he would be able to slink back to his office soon enough.

"Something's wrong. You and Greg, there's something up there too."

Wilson noticed Cuddy had leant forwards slightly, obviously wanting to hear some kind of gossip from what was happening between the two near-inseparable friends. They had their moments, but Cuddy had always banked on Wilson being the one person House could rely on. It seemed she had been wrong – when Greg had entered her office to speak to her about James, yet had spoke as though the man in question was nothing more than an irritating stranger.

"We're just... treading on each other's toes. I need to get out of his hair. It's fine."

Raising a hand to the back of his head again, Wilson rubbed the itch at the back of his head once more. It was slowly driving him mad, along with Blythe's state and House's moods. Just another on a great list, it seemed.

"You're close enough to contract something from his hair." Cuddy pointed out, and Wilson sighed at the comment. "What have you been doing?"

The male declined to answer, merely shaking his head gently.

"Close enough for him to bite you, then?"

Cuddy saw the surprise flit over Wilson's face as she asked the question, and his hand immediately went to his open collar, pressing it against his neck. She nodded. He winced.

"You're sleeping with him." She stated, simply, lowering her eyes to her desk lamp. She wasn't finding it awkward, merely... surprising. Neither House nor Wilson had struck her as particularly that manner inclined. Well, House didn't seem to be interested in anything outside of hookers, and Wilson could barely stop himself eying up the closest young nurse.

"Once." Wilson gingerly released his neck, shifting a little in the seat. Cuddy nodded.

"He came to me, earlier. Telling me you weren't fit to be here, that I should send you home." She felt like the bearer of bad news, and dearly hoped Wilson wasn't in favor of shooting the messenger. "He doesn't want you to be here."

No reply.

"Your wife... ah... _ex_-wife is under our care, James, and it's not ethical for you to be involved as much as you are. There's very little I can do about that – you're up to your neck with House's moods, stress, as well as your own cases... I should take his advice and send you home."

Pulling himself up from the chair, Wilson nodded at her words, straightening his tie a little as he waited for the next portion of her speech. 'It's for your own good, don't feel too bad...'

"But I'm not going to. A – because I don't take advice from a man who owes me Clinic Duty, and B – I doubt you'll do much good twiddling your thumbs at home. We need you here."

Tilting his head to the floor, a genuinely happy smile formed over Wilson's lips, and he nodded again. He was beginning to look like a novelty car accessory.

"Go on, get back to your office. And... Wilson?"

He looked up at her questioningly, wondering what more there was to say.

"House is... he's a hard man to love." Cuddy clasped her hands, resting them upon her desk as something to stare at as she spoke. "But don't take it hard if he can't love you back."

Perhaps it was too late to be offering such advice - she could see the hurt in his eyes as he nodded for the final time.


	7. Solution?

**Toxicity**

"House?"

From beneath the gaming magazine that was shielding his eyes from the outside world, an exasperated groan sounded at the mention of his name for what had to be the thirtieth time in two hours, and House fumbled over the exam bed for his jacket. Or, more specifically, the Vicodin which lay in his jacket pocket.

"Oh, for God's sake!" He grunted, reaching one hand beneath the magazine to press the pills between his lips. "It's head lice! Just take them to the drug store and go away! Leave me in peace!"

Standing half-in and half-out of Exam Room One's door, Wilson blinked rapidly at this speech before clearing his throat in an attempt to gain some sort of recognition. House remained silent beneath the magazine, and he was forced to enter the room.

"Well... unless some soccer mom's cornered the market, every drug store around here is out." He replied, looking anywhere and everywhere but the still figure upon the bed. "Cuddy's going mad, you know. All surgery's been canceled for Nit checks. It-it's like highschool all over again."

It was meant to sound like a joke, poking fun at how highly strung Cuddy had become, but it sounded little more than the weak, pathetic attempt a man with extreme anxiety resting on his shoulders would crack to try and break the atmosphere. At least it got House moving – he had pulled the magazine from his face and was eying the newly arrived Wilson with a mixture of curiosity and dislike.

"You're still here." House mused aloud, folding up his reading material and letting it fall to the floor with a slap. "Well, that's a shame."

"I don't need a break." Wilson was skirting around the outside of the room, edging – inching – closer to House. "You just want to get rid of me."

"Oh, bravo. Did you sit up all night working that one out?" Muttering his latest sarcastic jibe, House settled more comfortably down on the bed, handed folded on his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Speaking in tones of utter disbelief, Wilson dragged himself up to House, looking down at him. House still didn't look at him, rather just around him. "Why can't you speak to me?"

"I can speak to you. I just don't choose to." House was quick to correct him, still not meeting his eye. It was just one joke too far, and Wilson slammed his fist down against the padded leather. It gained a quirked eyebrow from House, but still no eye contact. It was like psychological torture, and James could feel whatever restraint he had slipping away in attempts to get House to just look at him. He knew he was letting Greg win just by getting this caught up in the twisted game, but was unable to stop himself.

Tugging a hand through his hair, Wilson's thoughts were quick to become irrational. Grabbing House's shoulders, he pressed the man down hard, forcing him into a crushing kiss. There was no response, yet neither was there a struggle or hands tearing him away. Gently sucking on Greg's lower lip, Wilson felt the tension, the stress in his shoulders drop down a notch.

As he pulled away, however, the sight of House still staring up at the ceiling sent a ripple of something unpleasant down his spine. His taste was still in Wilson's mouth, but, this time, it did nothing more than send a wave of nausea crashing over him.

"Hey, Wilson." House said suddenly, sounding undoubtedly chirpy. "How's your ex-wife?"

Burying his head into his hands, Wilson stumbled backwards into the wall, submerged in despair. What was he to do, with House blocking each of his moves with that... casual uncaring slipped into every spoken word?

"Worse." He breathed, pulling his hands away from his face as he composed himself. "She's worse."

"While you're here, trying to score. Hmm..." House pressed a finger into his lips in a parody of deep thought, acutely aware of how riled Wilson was becoming.

"Don't do this to me."

"Me? You're doing it to yourself!" House kept up the argument, but was no longer interested in what Wilson was doing. She was worse... worse... how did that make any sense? They hadn't given her any more drugs, not a thing, and had resolved to keep it that way until they had another diagnosis. Short of contracting something completely different from those around her... God, it just didn't make any_ sense_!

"You're just scared. You're scared of commitment, an actual relationship. It's pathetic, House – hiding behind all this tough-guy crap..."

There was just the Retinyl Palmitate, Provitamin A for the dry eyes. He had wanted to eliminate everything he could, just to try and squeeze a little logic from symptoms that refused to collaborate and form a neat little answer for him. Retinyl Palmitate, what could that have sparked? Retinyl Palmitate... Vitamin A.

"...I was an idiot to think this would ever work. You are just incapable of showing any emotions outside the bounds of misery. I _liked_ you, House. We're friends. You're not supposed to go around, making your friends as fucking miserable as you!"

Slowly, House rose to lean upon his elbows, eyes flickering from one corner of the room to the other as he thought. Retinyl Palmitate, converted from a Provitamin to Vitamin A by tissues, the human body. The liver failure... the maximum limit for its store of retinoids would have to have been exceeded, equaling systematic toxicity. The Retinyl Palmitate wasn't a carotene, therefore able to be overdosed upon...

"...You're just acting like a jackass, House. Nobody's even bothering with you anymore. Nobody cares. Not Cuddy, not Cameron, not me."

Vomiting, blurred vision, headache. They were all signs of acute toxicity. Osteoporosis, course bone growths, hair loss... shit, he was right! The dry eyes... she was diabetic. He had read it in the case file. Diabetics were more at risk of Keratoconjunctivitis sicca.

"Hypervitaminosis..." House murmured, quickly gazing up at Wilson with his mouth slightly open in surprise. Wilson dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, not even noticing House was finally looking at him. It didn't even matter anymore.

"What? You're not even listening to m--"

"Shut up! Hypervitaminosis A... Vitamin A Overdose!" He pulled a 'duh' face at the blank expression that was received but didn't pause to explain himself. Grabbing his cane, House dragged himself from the bed, already out in the corridor before Wilson even thought to follow him.

Hobbling out of the Clinic, House could easily distinguish the nag of Cuddy's voice calling him back. There wasn't an option for stopping, even if he'd wanted to – if they hooked her up to a Liver dialysis unit now, they still had to prey they hadn't poisoned her beyond repair.


	8. Thoughts&Feelings

So, this fic is most likely to be ending in the very next chapter. I was thinking of continuing the whole WilsonxHouse story thingy, however, in another work of fanfiction. Y'know - angst, cheating, deception, another case study in the middle of it all. I was wondering what you guys thought. Any suggestions/comments? Thanks - you've been great. (:

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**Toxicity**

He was with her at every opportunity

At every possible interval, every five minute gap between his patients, Dr. James Wilson was at his ex-wife's bedside. The nurses came and went, encouraging him to speak to her, but what was there to say? They had been separated for years and hadn't seen or even spoken to each other for most of the time. If truth be told, Wilson couldn't remember the last time he had even thought about her.

Yet still he sat, staring deep into the figures displayed by the monitors around the room, thoughts that had been hidden for so long suddenly rearing their heads. He could remember his proposal, the wedding. He could remember waking up and noticing everything about her all over again, but couldn't remember how she had felt against him. He couldn't bring back the thoughts of her touch, her kiss. As much as he tried, as much as he kneaded his forehead in the gloom, they just remained unaccessible. Locked off.

The memories of House were so very raw, however. It hurt him to even touch upon them, yet they remained to the fore of his mind.

Wilson was still maintaining he didn't care, he couldn't be bothered with House anymore, and was trying hard to stick with that. Even so, he found himself lapsing, starting to muse over why he would feel so guilty over something he hadn't even started. House had, after all, kissed him. He had started it all. He had made all the moves with Wilson merely following suit.

James could, of course, just protest he hadn't wanted it. Alcohol dulls the senses, makes people do things they normally wouldn't dream of. But he didn't want to be doing that – he didn't want to be betraying his own feelings. Even if their night together had gone awry, there was no denying he still wanted House. He had fallen hard for his college and still hadn't got around to picking himself up.

Of all the people in the world, out of every single one of them, why did it have to be Greg? The man who refused to enter into any kind of serious relationship. The man who had shut himself off from any help the outside world might offer.

That's all he wanted to do, wasn't it? Help. Be the one person House could come to lean on when things became too tough. Wilson had soon come to realize 'love' would be just short of impossible for House, but what about a psychical desire for somebody to always be there for you?

Stretching back in the seat, Wilson checked his watch, slightly surprised to find he had been sitting in the darkened room for over half an hour. Somebody should be bustling in to run the usual tests and checks any moments, and he felt the need to be there while they were performed. Sitting more comfortably, he fixed his eyes on Blythe's slightly tangled blond hair, splayed out over the pillow.

"My mother was called Blythe."

The rough voice made him jump slightly, and Wilson was soon aware of the shadow-cast figure in the doorway. The very last person he needed to see – House himself. Hobbling into the room, Head of Diagnostics seemed to be taking the place of the three aging nurses who talked of nothing but Oprah.

"Nowhere near as pretty, though."

Grabbing the clipboard from the end of the bed, House seemed to have forgotten everything that had been said and done between he and Wilson. They hadn't spoken, barely even passed in the corridor since the episode in the Exam Room, and House seemed to have wiped the slate clean since then. Or he was just biding his time for another jibe. Either was plausible.

"It's working." Wilson spoke softly, cocking his head a little as he watched House.

"I know." Was the reply, layered in tones which read 'you're an idiot'.

"Thank you."

Casting an odd look over at Wilson, House continued to mark off notes on the clipboard, checking the monitors as he went. The dialysis was working well, and she was set for a full recovery, pending no further disasters.

"Yeah... well... you're welcome." He said, feeling uneasy with the sudden thanks. He didn't do it for the praise, especially not from Wilson. He'd be quite contented with simply never speaking about this case ever again.

"She's going to be in therapy for... a long time." Wilson examined his thumbnail, pretending not to be interested in what House was doing. He was lousy at it, and he found himself hurriedly looking away as he caught the man's eye by mistake.

"Yeah." House nodded. Acute toxicity... never lasted much more than a single day. The patient had either attempted an overdose, or was seriously whacked up anyway and had decided to down a few bottles of the stuff for a kick. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't his business, and he didn't really care which one it was. "You okay?"

"Fine. Yeah." He spoke too quickly, too soon after the question, revealing his anxiety to House more than words ever could. "She's not even-- I mean, I haven't seen her in years. Doesn't matter."

"Sure." House decided not to pursue the subjects. Reattaching the clipboard back to the foot of the bed, he left the patient's room without another word, leaving Wilson to his thoughts once more.

He was... he was just fine. Yeah. Of course.


	9. Endings

And so it ends. The fic that has brought about more stress to me than my National Curriculum Tests.

But it was worth it, right? (: I enjoyed this greatly, and I want to thank my reviewers. I will be writing a sequel. But first I have to find another obscure medical condition. Haha. Bundles of fun, I assure you.

* * *

**  
**

** Toxicity**

Threading his way through the carpark and the people inhabiting such a place, House could barely wait to get home. The day had been trying, for lack of a better word that wouldn't get him a stern yelping from Cuddy, and he was exhausted. The Nits outbreak seemed to have died away, that was one good point, but now it was back to the usual flow of hypochondriacs and people fearing an early flu epidemic. Did it get much better than fifty-year-olds with no life outside of Internet porn describing a million and one imaginary symptoms?

Probably not.

Patting down his clothes, fumbling about for both the Vicodin and the keys, House did have to wonder if this was what he was doomed to for the rest of his life. Rattling through the Clinic, his cases, neatly avoiding management and the like... it wasn't much of a life, if he thought about it.

For a moment, he remembered the conversation he had held with Wilson about the 80s. Back then, just about everybody had been cool. Amidst the studies and the work, even House had managed to get his kicks. You'd go out in your stonewashed jacket, get smashed, stagger back and play arcade games until your thumbs felt like they'd been worn away. That had been life. Or, at any rate, a better life than the one he was currently in possession of.

Not realizing it, House had stopped dead in his tracks to think over the topic. A scowl creased his brow as he continued across the carpark, still fumbling in his pockets. Goddamnit, where had he put his keys now? It just wasn't going to be a good evening, he could feel it.

"Dr. House!"

Hearing his name, House stopped once more, but this time was tempted to start walking away as fast as he could. He could easily recognize the voice, and just wasn't up to it. Of all the days, of all the possible days and hours of the world, Cameron picked this one.

"Dr. House." Allison said again, this time slightly more breathless as she jogged up to him, glasses balanced on top of her head. "House, I just wanted to sa--"

"You're welcome." He cut her off quickly, turning back to his path. She wouldn't be that easily deterred, however, and moved quickly around to his front once more. House sighed, shaking his head a little. They'd had this conversation once before, when she had discovered he'd make a speech in return for keeping them all on his staff.

"No. Seriously, House. You didn't need to do that. I deserved to be fired."

Upon hearing about what had happened with the hormone test, Cuddy had – as House predicted – pounced on him almost immediately. Lawyers, board members, the whole bundle had been throwing questions left, right and center about the conduct of Dr. Cameron.

He was quite the skilled liar, however, as Cuddy knew full well. However, even Cuddy couldn't distinguish between his truths and his lies. To all intents and purpose, and as the paperwork of the inquest documents, Cameron had merely placed the splint in a rack and completely forgotten which one was hers.

A bit of mumbling and grumbling about carelessness and the Lawyers were soon back in their office blocks.

"If you got fired, I'd have to get in interviews again. I was just saving myself the torture." House frowned at his pockets, rootling through those of his jeans for the two objects that seemed to have vanished into thin air. How exactly do you loose a set of keys with a florescent blue jumpdrive attached to it?

"I don't think you were." Cameron had that all-knowing smile on her lips, looking up at him from beneath her hair slightly less than innocently.

"Oh, right. I just lied my ass off because I've got the hots for you." House looked away, a smirk of disbelief toying about his own lips. She just didn't quit.

"Plausible." She grinned a little wider as he turned away from her, one hand on her hip. "Extremely plausible."

"Right. And babies come in buckets." Vaguely waving her away, dismissing what she had said, House continued the hunt for his keys as he walked deeper between the cars. He could hear Cameron following him, but somewhat cautiously.

"Look." He began, turning around to face her. He never quite managed to speak the rest of his sentence, however, as he came to be incredibly close to her. She was still grinning, still looking at him with a glint of something or other.

"I am." She replied quietly, before standing on tiptoes to press a light kiss against House's rugged jaw. She didn't pull herself away from him immediately, rather just stood there, as if they were going through the first motions of a hug.

Slowly, she settled back from him.

"That was for saving my job."

When he said nothing, she turned on a heel and paced back towards the Hospital's main entrance. For a while, House found himself staring after her. Then he remembered he was still missing his pills and his keys, and huffed back to the task at hand. They couldn't have gone far – they rarely left his person, after all.

Reaching his bike, House still had his eyes on his pockets, beginning to get more than just slightly frustrated. Why didn't they warn him when there was a kleptomaniac or a goddamn family of magpies on the loose? What the Hell was he meant to do – thumb a ride by the roadside?

"You look distant... agitated."

The distinctly perky tones of Wilson's voice made him stop rummaging and blink once or twice before looking up. He saw an Oncologist. He saw an Oncologist leaning on his bike. He saw an Oncologist leaning on his bike, swinging the keys to said bike around a finger with a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face.

"You look like an ass." He retorted, making a grab for the keys. Wilson, however, was wise to the ways of House and trapped them in a fist before they could be caught.

"Failsafe. I knew you'd storm off the moment I tried to talk to you, so I had to take hostages." Reaching into his trouser pockets, Wilson produced the Vicodin bottle which was promptly snatched from his hands. Seconds later, House was swallowing a pill and scowling at Wilson's oddly happy expression. Wasn't this the man who was supposed to make the chronically depressed look like joyous little elves?

"You sneaked into my office, stole my keys and my pills to make sure you could tell me about it afterwards?" Pocketing the pills, House smirked. "I was right. You are an ass."

"And yet I still have the keys. Looks like I win."

"Wilson. Give me the goddamn keys. Get off my goddamn bike. Shove your smug face up your goddamn a--"

"I wanted to thank you." Wilson cut him off before things became graphic, his smile lingering as the topic delved into the more serious of matters.

Raising a hand to his forehead, House rubbed his brow, not believing this was happing to him. He wanted to go home. He wanted to watch The O.C. He wanted to go to sleep and forget he had a job. Not stand around exchanging pleasantries.

"Second time in ten minutes. Have you not heard of even spacing? Thank me in about ten years, then I'll deal with it." Making another grab at the keys, he growled at Wilson's expression as he moved the fist out of reach once more.

"House. Can you just... listen to me? Seriously. Thank you." Extending a hand, the one without the keys, obviously, Wilson offered a handshake. House merely looked at the slender, nimble hand, declining the contact. Wilson sighed.

"We can forget what happened." He spoke in much lower tones, casually casting a gaze over the carpark, as if the two biddies in the corner would twig as to what they were speaking about.

"You want to?"

"No!" He retorted hurriedly, regretting it almost as quickly. "Well-- Yes. No."

As he heaved himself away from the bike, he saw House nod a little, and he found himself wondering quite what he was nodding about. The 'yes' or the 'no'?

Handing House his keys, Wilson gave a slightly nod himself, but this one was in parting. As he passed, Wilson just brushed the man, trying to gather the scrapes of his happy mood. Talking to Greg could just completely shred any mirth one might have.

"You know..."

As House spoke up, sounding thoughtful, Wilson dared to lift his head and look back. He saw House had the motorbike helmet in his hands, yet hadn't moved very much apart from that. As the man's voice suggested, however, he did look incredibly wrapped up in thoughts.

"Miami Vice is still up the cinemas..." Meeting Wilson's eye, House cocked his head inquisitively. "We could go see it. Relive your 'cool' years. Crash at mine."

Holding out the helmet in a way which told Wilson he should take it, House's gaze on his colleague took on a more interested undertone, as if he was trying to fathom what exactly was going on inside James' mind through his eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"No. I'm going to gag you and play Postman Pat for a few hours." House rolled his eyes, waving the helmet about slightly.

Stepping forwards, the grin found Wilson's lips again, forming slowly as he took the helmet. As he did so, he felt a brush of House's fingers against his, sending a tingle through his nerves. Raising his eyes to meet Greg's, he could see something similar flicker behind the sharp blue irises. There really was only one answer.

"You're on."

Padding back towards the bike, turning the hard plastic in his hands, Wilson wondered if this was an end to their feud. Was it indeed an end to their friendship?

An end, possibly, but also the starts of something so much more.


End file.
